The Jodi Picoult Collection

by Jodi Picoult

  “He was hit by a train?” I say, stunned.

  “You lived through a plane crash,” my mother points out.

  “Barnum carved up the beast and gave pieces to different museums. He sold the heart, even. To Cornell University, for forty dollars. Can you imagine?”

  “We’d better be going,” my mother says.

  “Oh, all the money is there,” Elkezer says. “You can count it if you like.”

  “I’m sure that isn’t necessary. Thank you.”

  “No, thank you.” We leave him standing on the third floor, lightly touching the photo of Jumbo.

  As we close the heavy door of the museum behind us, my mother rips open the envelope. “We’re rich again, Rebecca,” she sings. “Rich!”

  We get into our car and pull out of the parking lot. The fender scrapes like a rake against the pavement. We pass little boys playing handball and a fat woman with skin the color of molasses. We pass a deal going down on a street corner: a man in a leather cap unfolding a small wrinkled square of paper. In spite of this I can still picture the heavy dance of a motorcade, the oompah of a tuba, the slow-foot sashay of those elephants down Main Street.

  31 JANE

  We celebrate Rebecca’s birthday at the geographical center of North America. Right outside of Towner, North Dakota, I give her a Hostess cupcake with a candle stuck in it, and I sing “Happy Birthday.” Rebecca blushes. “Thanks, Mom. You didn’t have to.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a present too,” I say, and I pull an envelope out of my back pocket. We both recognize the envelope—the scruffy manila one that held the money under the MG’s seat. Inside, on motel stationery, I’ve written an IOU.

  Rebecca reads it out loud. “IOU anything you want (within reasonable limits) on a shopping spree.” She laughs, and looks around. We’ve pulled over at a road sign that announces this geographical center, and with the exception of a superhighway beside us, there is nothing as far as the eye can see. “I guess I’ll have to wait till we hit civilization again to go shopping,” she says.

  “No! That’s the point. Today’s driving is going to be wholly devoted to finding a suitable place to buy clothes. God knows we need them.” The old shirt of Oliver’s I’ve been wearing is covered with engine grease and food stains. My underwear can stand by itself. And Rebecca doesn’t look much better; the poor kid didn’t even take a decent bra along. “So how does it feel to be fifteen?” I say.

  “Not much different than it felt to be fourteen.” She hops into her side of the car: she has this down to a science by now. Me, I still have to crawl over the door, and I usually jam my foot on the handle.

  “Okay,” Rebecca says, settling herself with her feet swung over the passenger door. “Where to?”

  Towner, I suppose. It’s the place that Joley had directed us towards, although I have discovered that even a filling station and maybe three wooden houses can be classified as a “place” in North Dakota.

  Rebecca guides me down a dirt road. We drive for a mile without seeing any signs of life, much less commerce. Finally a dilapidated barn that leans decidedly to the right looms into view. On it is a hex sign, two lovebirds in all the primary colors. “Eloise’s?” Rebecca says.

  “This can’t be a store. This doesn’t even qualify as a home.” But there are several cars parked outside, cars so old and faded I have the sense I have arrived in a 1950s movie set. Tentatively, I pull over and climb out of the car.

  The barn doors are propped open by long poles burning citronella candles. Inside are rows of barrels with flip-up tops. They are labeled: FLOUR, SUGAR, BROWN SUGAR, SALT, RICE. There is a strong sheet of smell that hits you when you cross the threshold, like molasses being burned. In a pen to one side of the barn is a tremendous sow collapsed on its side, most likely from its own weight, and ten spotted pigs jockeying for a better position at her teats. Next to the pigpen is a long, planed board propped on makeshift trestles, and on the board is a cash register—the silver kind where the buttons pop into the window: 50¢, $1, No charge.

  “May I help you?” a woman says. She has been bent into the pigpen so neither Rebecca nor I noticed her. Rebecca is deeper into the barn, exploring darker corners, so that leaves me to answer. “Well, actually,” I say, “we’re looking to get some new clothing.”

  The woman claps her hands together. She has stiff red spitcurls and a triple chin. She cannot be more than four and a half feet tall. When she walks, her shoes squeak as if her socks are wet. “You have come to the right place,” she says. “We have a little bit of everything.”

  “So I see.”

  “My motto is, buy one only of each item. It helps the customer make up his mind more quickly.”

  I am wary of buying something at Eloise’s. True, she has one of everything, but not necessarily things you would ever want.

  “Mom,” Rebecca says, sweeping towards us. She is holding a sequined evening gown. “What do you think? Pretty sexy, huh?”

  It has spaghetti straps and too much lycra. “Wait till you’re seventeen,” I tell her. She groans and disappears behind a bolt of calico.

  “Excuse me,” I call to the woman who is leading me on this serpentine journey. “Miss?”

  “Call me Eloise. Everyone else does.”

  Rebecca, who is still holding onto the sequined black evening gown (where do you wear that in a place like Towner?), has culled a pile of clothing. “You finding what you want, dear?” Eloise calls. Then she turns to me. “Are you two together?”

  “Very much so,” I say, and I walk over to Rebecca’s pile.

  Rebecca peeks at the tag on a pair of red walking shorts. “Check out the prices, Mom.” She holds up the shorts. “Do you have these in a three?”

  “What we have in stock is on the sales floor. I’d be happy to move these items to a dressing room for you.” She waddles around a corner, led by a sixth sense, I imagine, since the clothes are piled over her head. “You’re in room number six,” she calls to Rebecca. I peer around the corner at the fitting rooms. Cow stalls.

  “Mom.” I walk over to where Rebecca stands, eyes shining. “This—” she holds out a pair of designer jeans, “—this is only three dollars,” she says. “This bathing suit is made by La Blanca, and it’s only one-fifty.”

  I finger the white price tags. The numbers are written in crayon. “Maybe we’ll come here to do all our shopping from now on.”

  I begin to leaf through the racks myself. At these prices, what have I got to lose? Eloise is a prudent businesswoman. She orders her stock in one of each size. So the bottom line is, if a pair of striped Liz Claiborne trousers come in, you can expect to find one of each size: 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 14 and 16. If you happen to be a ten, and another ten has gotten here before you, you are out of luck. This is what happens in several cases for items that catch my eye; I’m an eight and I guess in North Dakota that’s a popular size. Those, and the sixteens, seem to be selling the best. Rebecca has her pick of the racks, still sporting a preadolescent figure.

  Eloise crosses in front of me holding out a cute yellow jumper. “I saw her face and I thought of this. You said size three, dear?”

  “What she really needs is a bra and some underwear. Do you stock that as well?”

  Eloise leads me to another row of barrels, marked by size. I reach into the bin marked Four and pull out a handful of panties in pink, fuschia, black lace, and white with green flowers. “Wonderful,” I say, taking all but the black lace. As I am looping them over my wrist for safekeeping, Eloise returns with a neatly packaged bra. I take these over to Rebecca. “You might as well put on some underwear,” I tell her. “Since we’re going to buy it anyway.”

  “Ma . . .” she says, hanging her head over the swing door of the stall. “You know.”

  “Oh.” I rummage in my bag for anther maxi-pad. There are no garbage pails to be seen. I lean close to Rebecca. “Just bury it under the hay or something.”

  Rebecca puts on a fashion show for me and Eloise. We are sitting
on the underwear barrels with our legs crossed when Rebecca comes out in the yellow jumper. “Oh, how darling!” Eloise says.

  Rebecca does look cute. She has braided her hair to get it out of her face, and it swings over the Peter Pan collar of the matching striped jersey shirt. The straps of the jumper criss-cross in the back and are secured with buttons in the shapes of crayons. She is barefoot. She twirls around, letting the skirt fly up.

  “Let me guess.” Eloise says, pointing to Rebecca’s feet. “Size seven?” She shuffles off in another direction, back towards an area where an Old Town canoe is suspended from the rafters.

  Rebecca ends up with six pairs of shorts, eight casual tops, a pair of jeans, a pair of white cropped pants, crew socks, black shoes, white shoes, various and sundry items of underwear, a nightgown covered in teddy bears, a pullover cotton sweater, a blue polka-dotted bikini and two grosgrain ribbon barrettes for her hair. “I can’t believe this,” she says, coming out and seeking the stack of clothes Eloise has neatly folded. “This is going to cost a fortune.”

  I doubt it; I’ve been keeping a mental tab and I don’t think we’ll even break fifty dollars. “Well, it’s your birthday. Enjoy.”

  “So,” Eloise says, as Rebecca throws her arms around me. “What about for you?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t.” I cross my legs nervously, and then uncross them.

  “I’m not going to let you travel with me, looking like that,” Rebecca says. “Not now that I’m dressed to kill.”

  “Well, I could certainly use some underwear,” I admit. I have been sitting on the size seven bin. I jump off and open the lid, lining up several pairs on my arms. The last pair I pull out is a G-string, a leopard print.

  “Oh, that’s you, Mom. You’ve got to get that pair.”

  “I don’t think so. It has its appeal, the way garter belts and thigh-high silk stockings have always held my interest. I like the idea behind them, but in reality I know I wouldn’t have a clue about how to put them on, so I do not bother.

  Rebecca runs with Eloise around the racks, collecting cotton sundresses and khaki shorts and silk tank tops. It is harder to find such close matches because, like I said, I wear a popular size. “Really, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Oh, just go get undressed,” Rebecca says, pointing to the cow stall. I walk inside and kick off my sneakers. The hay tangles in between my toes, prickling. Eloise sticks her head inside, which makes me embarrassed. I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Hello,” I say shyly.

  Eloise throws two shoeboxes on the floor, a pair of leather woven sandals and a pair of black heeled shoes. They are both size eight. How did she know?

  I check the price on each item of clothing before I try it on, a habit from shopping in expensive California boutiques that really is pointless here; nothing costs more than five dollars. The first dress I try on is too tight across the chest. I throw it onto the hay, disappointed. Somehow I had hoped that everything would look as perfect on me as it did on Rebecca.

  The next piece of clothing is a cotton jumper along the same lines as the one Rebecca tried on. It is red and splashed with blue and pink flowers. There is a matching white linen top with buttons down the back and embroidered flowers on the collar and sleeves. I try it on with the sandals Eloise has given me and walk out of the stall. Rebecca claps. “You really like it?” There are no mirrors, so the only reflection I have is Rebecca’s opinion.

  The last thing I try on is a lycra stretch tank dress, black. I put it on with heels. I don’t need a mirror for this one. The way it hugs my body, I know it’s bad. I can imagine sight unseen the places where my hips bulge out and where my tummy bloats. This is a dress for Rebecca’s body, not mine. “You want a laugh?” I say, calling to Rebecca.

  She jumps off her underwear barrel and walks to the stall, holding the door open so that I don’t have to walk out. “Who’d believe it? My own mother is a fox.”

  “Tell me you don’t see my hips or my butt. Tell me my stomach doesn’t look like a tire.”

  Rebecca shakes her head. “I wouldn’t tell you this if I didn’t think you looked good.” She points to my hip and addresses Eloise. “What do you do about those panty lines?”

  Eloise holds up a finger, runs to the underwear barrel, and retrieves the leopard G-string. She snaps it at me, as insubstantial as milkweed. “No way,” I say to Rebecca. “I’m not getting into that.”

  “Just try it. You don’t have to get it if you don’t like it.”

  I sigh and pull up the slim skirt. I wiggle my underpants off over the shoes and hold the leopard ones up to the light. “The little patch of fabric goes in the front,” Rebecca says.

  “How do you know that?” I stand on one leg and then the other. I pull up the G-string and discover, to my surprise, comfort. Between my legs I can barely feel the thin material of the underwear, covering me. I wriggle the skirt back down, and pace a few steps to get used to the feel of fabric against the skin of my rear end. Then I open the door.

  “What a knockout,” Eloise says.

  Rebecca turns to her. “Well take that.”

  The whole ensemble costs no more than four dollars. “We will not Where am I going to wear something like that?” I strip the skinny slip of material off my body so that I am standing braless, in this G-string. “It’s a waste of money.”

  “Like four dollars is going to break you,” Rebecca says.

  As we are arguing, Eloise reappears with a flimsy rose-colored sheath. “I thought you might like this. You didn’t buy a nightgown, after all.”

  I lift the negligee from her hands. Soft, it slips to the floor, spilled on the hay like a broken flower.

  Do you know the way there are certain things you try on, once or twice in a lifetime of shopping, and before you even see yourself you are convinced you have never looked so good in your life? I did not feel that way about the black dress, which Rebecca raved about. But this satin sheath, with its braided spaghetti straps and slit up the side, breathes with me.

  Before I step outside to show Rebecca I run my hands up my sides. I touch my own breasts. I spread my legs apart, enjoying the way satin slides across hot and bothered skin. So this is what it feels like to be sexy.

  I wore something like this on my wedding night, a white teddy with lace at the neck and six fabric buttons down the front. Oliver and I checked into the Hotel Meridien in Boston. Upstairs, Oliver did not comment on the teddy. He ripped it during foreplay, and after we had checked out I realized we had left it on the floor of the honeymoon suite.

  I know before I open the door to reveal myself to Rebecca that I am taking this. If I could, I’d wear this one out of the store, and drive down the highways of the Midwest feeling the satin rub in between my thighs each time I shifted gears. I strike a dramatic pose, arched against the back wall of the cow stall.

  Rebecca and Eloise applaud. I take a bow. I close the door behind me and very slowly pull the negligee over my head. Talk about a waste of money. The truth is, I’ve left the only man I’ve ever slept with. So who am I going to wear it for?

  I start to pull on a pair of the cotton underwear I am going to buy when I stop, and step out of it, and try on the G-string instead. I pull my shorts over this, and button them and zip the fly. When I take a step forward to lace up my sneakers, there is a forbidden sensation of freedom. I feel like I am hiding a secret that no one has to know.

  32 OLIVER

  Now that I have ascertained that Jane and Rebecca are on their way to Iowa, I am much less worried by my situation. Today, in fact, I took two spare hours and called the Institute, taking messages down on a small bedside pad at the Holiday Inn.

  I will not pat myself on the back yet; it is not the mark of a good scientist to congratulate himself before he comes to a conclusion, an endpoint. But nonetheless I consider this my finest work to date. Starting with next to nothing, I have beat Jane to the punch, if you will—I’ve discovered where she is headed before she even realizes she is headed
there. Jane is the type who will be driving through Iowa, and then, having remembered her daughter’s plane crash, will turn off the road at the spur of the moment. Of course it no longer matters. Because when she turns off the road I will be there, and I will take her back to San Diego. It is where she belongs. If my calculations go according to plan, I will be home in time to catch the start of the humpback migration to the breeding grounds of Hawaii.

  This morning I spoke to Shirley at the office and asked her to help me with some research. The poor girl was near tears when she heard my voice, for Christ’s sake, it’s only been four working days. I told her to ask a reference librarian in town to help her find microfiche files on the crash of Flight 997, Midwest Airlines, in September 1978. She was to record as much precise information about the site of the crash as possible. Then she was to take the data and call the State Department of Iowa, and using the Institute’s clout, find out the names of the owners of the surrounding farms. Presumably, in two days when I contact her again, I will know whose land I have to stake out.

  And so the next challenge, having mastered their route, is to be able to read from a distance the role I have to play. I will need two speeches: one as a penitent husband, and one as a dashing savior. And I will need to assess practically on sight which of these two categories I must fill.

  Have I always been this good an analyst?

  It is only noon, but I feel like celebrating somehow. I am on top of the crisis. I have at least found all the pieces of the puzzle, if I am still somewhat muddled about fitting them together. I know that I must be back on the road by two in order to reach the next Holiday Inn in Lincoln by dinnertime. Checking my watch (a nervous habit, I don’t really need to see the time), I wander into the hotel lobby to find the bar.